Half Accidental
by The Devil's Feet
Summary: John is the Enterprise's doctor, and when the ship picks up a signal on an asteroid zooming toward destruction, the last thing he's expecting to find is a life form he's never encountered before: Sherlock. What will happen when he brings him aboard his beloved ship? Better summary in the first chapter. Rated M for later chapters. Star Trek AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hello, all. Here is a new story, though this one is a bit different from the ones we usually put out. This is a Star Trek Johnlock AU. Calabash and I are in the middle of writing it, and I will try to publish a new chapter once a week for now, though it may bump down to once every two weeks in the future. This is a sort of experimental fic for the two of us, there are a lot of elements in here that we haven't actually tried before, so please be kind. I just wanted to add a few extra warnings in here. There's possible mpreg in the future chapters, if you think that's something you'd like, then read with reckless abandon. If it's something you think you won't like, we will have a warning at the beginning of the chapter IF we actually do write the Mpreg. Just to let you all know._

 _As for the usual, Calabash is writing as John Watson, the ship's doctor, and I am writing as Sherlock, the reclusive, rather mysterious alien. There will be sex in the future chapters, though there is a slow build. I can promise rough, angry, loud, foul-mouthed sex, as per usual, and I can also promise slow, sweet, caring sex. I think this will be a mainly top!John fic, if that's what you all like, but if I have my way Sherlock will "be at the helm" (hurr hurr hurr) on occasion._

 _Thank you all for being delightful readers!_

 _-Drifta_

* * *

 _Summary:_

 _On an asteroid hurtling toward destruction, the Enterprise picks up a mysterious signal that they are honourbound to investigate. They send the ship's doctor, John H Watson down with a team of red shirts to find out what could be making the call. Upon landing John finds an alien in stasis, and without meaning to, wakes him up. He and the alien strike up an unlikely friendship, and it is because of this that they take him aboard the Enterprise._

 _Sherlock Holmes is the last of his kind, he was left on the asteroid for dead several hundred years ago, and somehow survived. He needs John's help, he needs to find a mysterious man named Mycroft, and, above all, he needs to make sure no one else in the Federation knows of his mission. John is happy to help, and instinctively trusts Sherlock, but there's just one problem: Sherlock lies._

 _Is he telling the good doctor everything, or are there crucial parts of his past that he is purposefully leaving out? Is he really just trying to live peacefully, or is there a darker, more sinister motive to his actions? Who is Mycroft? And will John be able to choose the right path, despite his reluctant attraction to the strange alien._

* * *

The door hissed before him, sliding open to reveal a dark interior, but this didn't stop John. He pushed inside, his palm hitting the button on the wall to shut the door again behind him, and he huffed. "I know you're in here," he called out in a grumbling, gravelly voice. There was no reply. John shuffled towards the thick window, his hand pressing against the cold glass, leaving a misty handprint behind. They were passing the Fantahue Nebula, and as he stared at the swirling streaks of neon colours, mixing with the stars like water and oil, he was struck once more by the raw beauty of the universe. They could make a right shite hole out of planets, one at a time, but there were some things the human race, or hell, any race, couldn't fuck up. He smiled at that, then turned to the dark quarters once more. "You may as well come out," he said firmly. "The Captain sent me to tell you to get your pretty arse to Sick Bay. You can't hide from me forever, you know. It's only a check-up. I'm as gentle as a Narfurian lamb."

Sherlock hid in the shadows, blue eyes flashing like a wild animal. He shifted back, refusing to speak, refusing to acknowledge the order. He wasn't going back to that Sick Bay. They wanted to keep him there. They'd strap him in and lock the door after his escape this time. He wouldn't let them. He'd never go back. Sherlock splayed himself against the walls, lips pressed together.

John exhaled, and approached the crouched figure, his hands held high. "Look," he said softly, "Nurse Chapel didn't mean to frighten you. I know you're angry, and I know you're scared, but... it's me. It's John." With very quiet movements, he knelt on the floor next to Sherlock's huddled figure, and held both his palms out so the skittish man could examine them, see that he was not holding a hypo. "See? It's just me. I won't let anyone else near you. I'll do the exam, and it'll all be fine."

"No it WON'T!" Sherlock shouted, leaping back and glaring wildly at him. "You're going to lock me away. Your captain thinks I'm crazy. He thinks I'm dangerous! He thinks... he's going to lock me up and have you cut my brain OUT for science." Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself, ready to run again. "I'm the last of my kind... of course you'd want to destroy me. You bloody humans."

"HEY." John took several steps back, giving him his space. He lifted his arms, eyes wide. "Search me. Go on. I didn't bring my phaser, or my hypo, or anything. See?" He turned in a little circle, purposefully keeping the little smile in the corners of his lips. As Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, John lowered his hands. "I just need to take your vitals. You've been in stasis for a long time, Sherlock. A long time. I'm not about to let anyone hurt you. That's against my oath as a physician, and frankly..." John's head dropped, and he cleared his throat. "I've become rather fond of you." His eyes darted around the room in embarrassment. It had been an accident, stumbling across Sherlock on that asteroid, and waking him from his long slumber. But in the days they'd spent alone together, Sherlock had exhibited more courage and clever resourcefulness than John could ever have anticipated. He fixed him with a solid glare. "Go on, then. You're a mind reader, of sorts. Do I have any intention of hurting you?"

Sherlock cautiously reached forward and jabbed John's heart, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I don't trust your captain." He hissed, drawing his hand back and relaxing a little, his eyes glowing silver for a second. "I don't trust his first officer. Those two bastards want to pick me apart."

"First of all, watch what you say about the Captain." John's eyes glinted up at him, as well. He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, then closed his fingers around Sherlock's wrist gently. "No one wants to pick you apart, Sherlock. They're just curious. We've had a lot of... bad experiences with some species." John stepped in closer, close enough to smell the foreign, sweet scent of his pearlescent skin, and to see the flicker of translucent eyelids. John swallowed. "I know you're good. They'll come around. In the meantime, maybe... don't mention the whole mind reading thing, eh?" He chuckled.

Sherlock calmed down a little, the hairs on the back of his neck began to soften. "I won't let them lock me up. I will destroy every last one of you if someone tries." He warned, eyes turning from blue to liquid silver once more as he bared his teeth like a wild animal.

It hadn't been bad at first, really. He had spent most of his time in the Sick Bay, with some sojourns into the rest of the Enterprise with Dr Watson. Then the Captain's first officer paid him a visit and Sherlock got an eyeful of the possibilities in his future. He saw himself chained up, being picked apart "for science". He saw himself in a padded room screaming and beating against the walls for the rest of eternity. Sherlock would never, ever be locked up again.

John's heart skipped a beat as the silver eyes gleamed down at him. Damn, what was this person doing to him? He'd seen alien species before; Romulan, Bajoran, Nechani, Gallamite... he'd seen it all. But this was new, and hell if it wasn't turning him clear upside down, arse over tit. He nodded, sliding his arm through Sherlock's and guiding him slowly to the door. "You can feel my thoughts, my intentions," he murmured, pressing the button to open the door. "You know when I say I'll defend you to my last breath, I mean it. I won't let anything happen to you. Understand?" He caught the silver eyes for emphasis. "Do you understand?"

"I'm not stupid." Sherlock snapped, wrapping his hand about John's wrist and glaring at him. "I understand English, Dr Watson. I can read your minds and hear your thoughts as clears though they were in my own language. I can SEE your words hit the air, feel them rearrange themselves." He pulled John's head toward him and glared into the stormy blue eyes. "I understand your language better than YOU do. Do not ever underestimate me." The alien released his arm and jumped forward, his bare feet slapping on the ship floor. "Now bring me to my prison."

"It's not a prison. It's my Sick Bay, and I'm rather fond of it, so please stop insulting her." John couldn't help but stare at Sherlock's feet as they walked, the milling crew parting for the imposing figure of the pale man, followed by a scurrying ship's doctor. Sherlock's feet were so smooth, so long and beautifully white. They made a lovely slapping noise on the ground, and for some reason this reminded John so strongly of sex that he rerouted them down a carpeted passage, just to be rid of the sound and the mental images that were being invoked.

Nurse Christine Chapel was waiting for them. She began to babble apologies at them both, but John shooed her out with a promise she wouldn't be reprimanded, as Sherlock sank primly on the side of a bed.

Sherlock stretched his arms out, growling a little as Nurse Chapel stepped closer with a needle. "He is the only one who touches me." He said softly, flickering his eyes to look up at John as if to say, "well, you asked for my trust, now you have it. Can you handle it?" The brunette flicked his hair away from silvery blue eyes and his full lips bowed into a smile. "Take my blood, Dr Watson. Take my blood and run it through your simulators. Test my flesh. Take pieces of me and recreate them. See what I can do."

John rolled his eyes at the dramatic speech. He tossed his head, pulling a tray of instruments over to the bed and sitting on a small chair next to the mattress. "You can go, Nurse Hooper. I'll take it from here."

Nurse Chapel's blue eyes lowered, and she flushed, leaning in to murmur, "Are you sure, Doctor? I heard he has mind powers, and can take over your thoughts and make you do things..."

John's hand raised to stay her, and he fixed a very stern look at the young woman. "That'll be all, Nurse." He watched as she scurried out, still glancing over her shoulder at the two men. The door swished open and shut, and they were left alone. John took a deep breath, and exhaled. "Sorry about that," he said casually, tinkering with the tricorder on his lap. He adjusted the settings as the machine in the wall beeped softly, recording Sherlock's vital signs. "I actually think she fancies you a little."

It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes, and he did so magnificently with a low snort. "That would be her mistake." He murmured, hauling himself up a little higher on the cot and leaning against the ship's wall. Slowly, almost trustingly, his silvery eyes closed as he rested his hand on his leg, palm up. "What if she's right and I can control your mind and make you do things? Aren't you worried I would make you slit your own throat? Or give you a permanent smile from ear to ear?"

The alien's voice was low and melodic as he spoke, his eyes moving beneath the lids, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He began to sway his head from side to side, almost mesmerizingly, half-seductive. From beneath his pale skin, his veins almost appeared silver, slithering up from his neck to his chin, nearly serpentine. Sherlock was nothing like human.

John's eyes followed the movement, with one brow uplifted. He allowed Sherlock his moment of mystery, silently acknowledging the beauty of the creature before him, but refusing to allow himself to be swayed by it. He liked Sherlock; he had from the very beginning. Unlike Nurse Chapel, however, it was not the devilish perfection of his features, nor the enchanting silver eyes that drew John to him. As surely as John knew his own name, he had grown assured of Sherlock's essential goodness, and it was to this innate pure nature that he now entrusted himself. He as good as told Sherlock so. "You could have done that on the asteroid," he said smoothly, and reached to press his thumb against the throbbing pulse at a thin, pale wrist. Yes, the instruments could give him the readings, but John was an old-fashioned bloke, and sometimes, the old ways were the best. "I trust you." The blood was pumping through the veins there at an extraordinary rate, far faster than humans or even Vulcans. John made a note on the computer.

"Maybe I was gauging you, as you are now doing to me." One eye cracked open, now blue, now silver - constantly changing. Suddenly, as John tried to feel again for his pressure point, the veins ceased their silvery sheen and reverted to their previous colour. He could feel someone just outside the door. "Perhaps I was waiting for you to bring me inside your little ship so that I could observe, imitate, adapt, and then destroy." He smiled wolfishly, mirth dancing from one eye to the other as they both stared at John. Someone was listening to their conversation. He could hear their heart beat.

John frowned up at him. Sherlock was acting strangely... even for him. He pursed his lips, pausing in his measurements and recording for a moment to gaze at his companion's smug face. "Did you?" he asked, more for Sherlock's benefit than his own. He was already confident in the answer, and he knew that Sherlock knew that, too. Nurse Chapel couldn't have known how accurate her suspicions were. Sherlock could, indeed, see into his mind, but not for a moment had he ever done anything to invade it. He didn't have to reveal his abilities to John; he'd done it out of pure chivalry. The doctor was the only one who knew about Sherlock's telepathic abilities, and he'd chosen to keep them secret. Now, he simply stared at him, waiting for Sherlock to make his assessments.

Sherlock slid his hand from John's reach and pulled his tunic off, twisting about to give the man an excellent view of his pale back, its beauty marred by age-old scars, some raised and horrible, some ancient and silvered. "This is what happened last time I allowed someone near. What about your small, insignificant race makes you any different?" He asked very quietly, feeling the heartbeat on the other side of the wall quicken with curiosity.

John's human ears could not hear the sound of the eavesdropper's heartbeat. He could see only the damage left on this poor creature's flesh, and immediately fury woke inside of his own heart. It burned, flaring out into his limbs and searing his cheekbones, and he felt rather than saw the surprise in Sherlock's face, hidden from his view. John stood, his chair scraping the floor. He reached out, laying the tricorder on the tray and tracing his fingertips over the wicked scars. Wrath and sorrow mingled in his chest. Silence reigned, and then he answered Sherlock's question, the only way he knew how.

"Me."

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he nodded. It would have to do for now. He reached down and pulled his tunic back on. "You ought to tell whoever is hiding behind that door to scuttle off now. Your pathetic ship is in no danger from me at the current moment." Assured the alien, reclining once more, legs stretched out before him. "Do tell me when you need my cooperation. Otherwise I shall just lie here."

John turned, blinking at the door. He shuffled over, but by the time the door whooshed open for him, there was no one outside in the corridor. He frowned, and turned back to his patient. "No one there."

"Good." Sherlock's smile was back and he wiggled about, his bony body trying to get comfortable on the thin cot. "How long am I to be confined to this damned room? When may I return to my asteroid? It wasn't... optimal, but it's better than this bed."

John shook his head, scowling as he returned to take Sherlock's temperature. "That asteroid was careening through space. You could have been pulverized at any moment. It's a wonder you hadn't been yet. You don't have to stay on board the ship, but... you can't go back to that bloody place. You were all alone there. You can't possibly want to spend the rest of your life alone, in stasis." He lifted his blue eyes to Sherlock's, concern warming them. "There are a lot of options, you know," he said gently. "Planets and people you've never even heard of. Places to go, see. Books. A thousand new ideas."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he frowned. "I don't trust people and planets." He said slowly, flexing his left arm and feeling a small amount of satisfaction when the temperature read impossibly low. "People are what killed my race. Planets are what I was banished from. What makes you think they'll want me back? I'll always be the freak."

"That was a long time ago," John reminded him, still using a low, soft voice as his hands moved with great caution over Sherlock's neck, under his ears, along his jawline. His bone structure was almost birdlike, delicate and painstakingly sculpted. "The Federation doesn't hold with any such nonsense. You'll be accepted, just like all the other species. We don't tolerate that sort of aggression or prejudice."

"What's the point?" Sherlock asked, sighing. "I'll be gone in another hundred years or so. Last one. You won't have to worry about me any longer."

"Don't you want to live a good life?" John was leaning in close, fingertips tapping lightly over the pulsing temples. Sherlock's wavy dark hair tickled his nose, and he wrinkled it. "I won't be around in a hundred years, either, but I'd like to have a good ride along the way."

Sherlock's bowed lips quirked a little and he shrugged. "At least I won't have offspring. That would... be upsetting for them. Other species are so small and strange. Sometimes I think that it must be so NICE not being me. Is it? It must be. There can't be anything going around in that skull of yours." The mirth was back in his eyes, and his blood was running silver.

John paused in his attentions, his face mere inches from the alien's. He cocked his head, and narrowed his light eyes. "For an intelligent being, you're a bit of a prat," he rumbled. "If there was anything going on in your head, you'd know better than to say things like that to a friend." John sat back and returned to his computer, tapping away on the screen, his lips set in a tight line.

Sherlock considered this for a moment, then shook his head, screwing his face up. "But that's boring." He grumbled, folding his arms. "Will I have to watch what I say now that I have company around? I don't think I can. I don't think I want to."

"Fine, then don't," came John's clipped answer. He continued to make notes, ignoring the heavy, irritated sighs that came from the bed until he had made his last entry, sent it to the Captain, and pushed the computer away. He leveled a serious look at his patient, and folded his arms over his chest. "But you were a hell of a lot kinder to me when we were on that asteroid alone, and don't think I haven't noticed. You're scared of change, and I understand. But change is sometimes what we get. You can't go back there. Now we can drop you off at the nearest habitable unpopulated planet..." John took a deep breath, and frowned thoughtfully. "Or... you can stay here, with us, and learn how to live amongst us, and you would have a friend."

"Your captain isn't going to let me go that easily." Sherlock said simply, twisting about on his side facing away from the young doctor. He stretched an arm out, staring at his long, white fingers as they slowly moved, one after the other, as though chasing the last.

"You told me yourself you couldn't get a read on him." John held his hand out for Sherlock. "He's a good man. I've served under him for five years. Come on, let's go get some lunch."

"Lunch?" Sherlock sat up and twisted around, his legs crossed.

"Yeah. Food. Come on, I bet I can find something even you will enjoy." John grinned, taking the pale hand and pulling him up. "The replicators can make just about anything you ask for."

Sherlock blinked and hopped off the cot. "I haven't..." he looked down at the floor, vaguely remembering his last meal. "Hm." The alien, walked silently behind John, his bare feet echoing about the near-empty room as they landed on the metal tiling.

John sensed his hesitation, and he placed a warm hand on his back. "It's all right," he said quietly. "Just come with me."

He led Sherlock down long corridors, pleased that most of the crew members they passed didn't give him a second look. Two flights up on the lift, and they found themselves in a small mess hall, populated with sparse young people. It was off hours, and so John and Sherlock found a table that was fairly isolated from the rest of the crew easily. A small replicator sat in the wall beside them, and John winked across the table at his guest as his finger punched a red button. "Beet salad, roast beef sandwich on French bread, side of warm apples, and a beer." He sat back, smiling as the order materialized.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but he realised that he could not remember what he used to eat. He closed his eyes, trying to retreat to the very recesses of his memory database in order to find that information he must have stored away all those years ago. Or had he deleted it?

Data corruption. File not found.

Sherlock's eyes opened and he hissed angrily. "I'm not hungry." He stated, folding his arms.

John watched the flitting emotions crossing the young man's face. He licked his lips. "Do... you mind if I order something for you to try?" he asked cautiously.

Sherlock snorted and lifted his hands to the ceilings. "If you insist." He allowed graciously, his expression one of haughty disdain.

John nodded, and turned to the replicator. Now... what to get. Something simple. Something easy on the stomach. He closed his eyes, praying he wasn't poisoning the poor chap. "Vegetable barley soup, spring salad, and... a tea, Earl Grey, hot." The dishes appeared slowly, and he offered them to Sherlock with a hopeful expression. "Just... try. And if you don't like it, we'll... try something else."

Sherlock sniffed suspiciously, running an analysis of the contents as they made their way toward an empty table in the back. "Well... none of this will kill me." He remarked dryly, sniffing it again. "I'm not sure how it will taste against my tongue, though."

John shrugged. "Only one way to find out," he said with a wink, and sank his teeth into his sandwich, watching Sherlock with keen eyes.

As the strange, alien creature began to delicately sip at his soup, John became aware of an intense scrutiny, focused on their table. The crew had been well trained; no one person was openly staring. In the Federation, part of basic training was to accept other life forms without a trace of prejudice or shock at appearance, culture, or creed. But it was impossible not to look at a being like Sherlock. He was attractive, for one thing. His beauty crossed the boundary lines of species, embodying the ideals of most humanoid races, and he carried himself as if he bloody knew it. He was well spoken, intelligent, and devilishly handsome. He was also grimacing. John blinked across at him. "Is it... not to your liking?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know." Sherlock answered, wrinkling his nose. "I'm not sure it's got the right... feel in my mouth." He tried it again and pushed the bowl back, feeling a little sick. "I'm full." He stated sullenly, his chair scraping a little across the floor as he pulled his legs up to his chest, the hairs on the back of his neck rising once more as he glared around suspiciously. The alien was not at all used to people watching him. Hell, he wasn't even used to people being AROUND. He'd been alone on that asteroid for years, and before then... Sherlock pursed his lips and sneered. "I think I'd rather be in the sick bay. Or the observation room. Anywhere but here. Everyone's thoughts were so LOUD. They were screaming in his head.

John glanced around at the scattered men and women in the mess hall, studiously trying not to look at their ship's doctor, and his unusual companion. Slowly, the blonde nodded. He stood, tilting his head towards the door. "Join me for a drink in my quarters?" John said with a low voice, smiling to show Sherlock that he understood.

Sherlock grumbled, but got up anyway. "What drink? If it's more of that... poison you tried to force me to imbibe when I first got on this flying tin pot, I will kill you with my own hands." He threatened sullenly, wishing he had something to stuff his hands into, rather than just wearing the white tunic and cropped white trousers he'd been given upon arrival, his own clothes being somewhat of a biohazard according to their scanners.

"That was coffee," John chuckled, and led him out of the room. He knew as soon as the door shut behind them, the dining room would be buzzing, but John really didn't care much. His rooms weren't far, and he had a feeling that Sherlock would be more inclined to eat without prying eyes watching his every move.

"Here. My place." John gestured proudly at the cramped living space he enjoyed on the Enterprise. It was larger than most of the crew had, though not nearly as large as the Captain's quarters. It was very sparsely decorated, with a small bed and only a few photographs littering the walls. The lights were dim, but he didn't lift them as Sherlock stepped inside, eyebrow lifted critically. John ignored it. He had come to expect biting remarks from this man, and they didn't bother him anymore. "Hot cocoa," John murmured to the miniature replicator beside his bed, and he sighed as he scooped up the cup that visualized instantly.

Sherlock sat down on the bed without waiting for John to refer him to one of the other seats. He rolled about and grumbled. "The other stuff was... too bitter. Too bitter. It wouldn't have been bad if it had something else." He dropped his face to the linens, inhaling John's scent, his mind whirring about, trying to decipher just what was going to happen to him on this ship. They couldn't go back to the asteroid... it would be destroyed in a matter of days. That was why he'd let them find him. It was better this way, though. This way they wouldn't be able to return and find what they'd left behind. The Federation would have confined him to a prison cell for the rest of his life if they'd known about half of his life. He would have to access their databases somehow. What Sherlock needed was a diversion. Just long enough to hack into the ship's computer and get up to date on the past twenty or thirty decades of information. Just long enough to find out if anyone knew about him.

"Too bitter..." The cup was halfway to John's lips when he paused, and looked down at the steaming, sweet liquid. Sherlock was lying with his face in John's pillow, limbs akimbo on the floor. John smiled and approached him, touching his knee. "Here. Try this instead." He pressed the warm cup into Sherlock's hands, and turned back to the replicator to order another.

Sherlock twisted about in an undignified manner, thrashing until he was seated properly on the bed and holding John's cup. He sniffed it suspiciously, analysing the contents. "This is what I want. I want coffee with a compound of 12 carbons, 22 hydrogens, and 11 oxygen." The alien closed his eyes, flitting through his depleted memory banks. "Sucrose." He added, a little unsure of himself. This hadn't been necessary knowledge for over 80 years. He'd deleted most of it long, long ago.

John lifted an eyebrow, and smirked at him. "Coffee," he said to the replicator. "Cream and extra sugar". The machine hummed at him, and he took the proffered beverage to Sherlock, trading it for his cocoa. Sherlock sniffed at the strong coffee, and John took a sip of his frothy chocolate. "So," he said after a long moment of silence. "Is this better?"

"Blech." Sherlock dropped the cup into a wastebasket after one sip. "No! I said TWELVE carbons, TWENTY-TWO hydrogens, and ELEVEN oxygen! I didn't want anything else. What is this, anyway?" He growled at the now destroyed contents of his cup, glaring furiously. "I don't want that in my coffee. I just want the sucrose."

John took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed. Why in the hell had they sent him to that asteroid anyway? It wasn't a doctor's job. It was a first officer's job, or the science officer. It wasn't his fault that they were one and the same person, and the Captain was too damned enamoured of him to let him out of his sight. He ignored Sherlock's outburst, breathing calmly until his heart rate slowed. "Black, two sugars," he rumbled to the replicator. It was probably his imagination, but the machine seemed to beep irritably back at him.

Sherlock accepted the drink, prepared to hurl it against the wall if it did not meet his standards, but as he took a sip, his eyebrows lifted in surprise. He said not a word, instead continued to drink, tucking his legs underneath him and leaning back against the ship's wall. This was much better. He sighed and tapped his fingers along the mug's circumference. "Where did you find me?" He asked after the mug was half downed. "I... had put myself in stasis to conserve energy. I don't... remember your crew bringing me here."

John huffed a little, his brow wrinkling. "We... read life signs from the asteroid," he said slowly. His cup rotated in his palms, weathered fingers tracing the minute imperfections in the paper surface. "I beamed down with three others: Lt. Baker, Ensign Magan and Ensign Harnell. Harnell didn't make it." John's grey eyes flicked down to his lap. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at the memory. "We found you in stasis, but your unit was cracked. We think it was the last collision the asteroid suffered. It would have been murder to leave you there, but... we couldn't just beam you up. Your body needed to come out of the stasis naturally. So… I sent the others back, and I stayed with you. You know the rest." They'd spent the better part of two weeks together, acclimatizing Sherlock to a wakeful state again, and when the word came from the ship that the asteroid was in danger, John had them both beamed aboard over Sherlock's protests.

Sherlock nodded. "How long was I in stasis? Did your scanners tell you?" He looked up at John, silvery bubbles beginning to eclipse pale blue in the depths of his orbs.

"No." John cocked his head, sensing more in the question than mere curiosity. "Your data was lost." He waited until Sherlock nodded and turned back to his coffee, then posed a question of his own. "Sherlock... how deeply can you penetrate my thoughts?" he asked, but asked it silently, staring down at his cocoa and willing the words as loudly as possible in the front of his mind.

"You don't need to shout." Sherlock replied quietly, his toes twitching. _However, if you ever tell anyone, I will kill you. He added, looking up at John. I'm trusting you._

John licked his lips, and chuckled. "If you're saying something to me," he said aloud, "I can't hear you. I'm only human, and... We are highly limited."

Sherlock frowned, blinking. "I... can't project my thoughts into your mind?" He asked, genuinely surprised. "That's... the... first time."

John laughed, eyes round. He sank on a chair, and scooted it close to the bed. "Really?" he said incredulously. "You... project your own thoughts into other people's minds?" Well, that was a frightening talent. Nurse Chapel had been right, then... Sherlock could easily control what people said or did. He peered up at him. "Try it again."

Sherlock tried again, screwing his eyes up this time, practically screaming telepathically at John, his cheeks flushing a little from the effort. Nothing. John's face remained rather bemused, a half smile on his thin lips. Sherlock grew frustrated and tried once more; screaming at the top of his lungs, so loudly that any telepath within four miles would have been able to hear the pure filth he was letting fly.

John's head tilted in confusion, but there was a sudden knock on the door. He stood, waving his hand at Sherlock to stay, and he answered it.

"Doctor." A tall Vulcan stood in the hall, eyes narrow, his jaw set. John coughed.

"Ah... yes sir. Can I help you?"

The Vulcan man looked past him at Sherlock, perched on the bed, exhausted. "I... heard something from within, and was concerned for your safety," the science officer replied.

Sherlock snorted and muttered something under his breath, immediately putting his shields up. "Merely an experiment," he assured the man, who did not look at all comforted. "Dr Watson, it would seem that I have over stayed my welcome and need to return to my containment unit." The alien rose to his feet and placed the half-empty mug on the table by his side. He held out his wrists ironically, arching an elegant eyebrow and staring the Vulcan down. "Am I to be restrained?"

John sputtered, then turned to his superior officer. "It's all right. We're just... getting to know one another," he said swiftly. "Thank you, sir. I'll see he gets safely to his quarters." He watched as the Vulcan retreated down the hall, glancing over his shoulder at the little man in the doorway, and then John turned to Sherlock with a grin. "He could hear you!" he whispered, rushing back to his chair. "Bloody hell, what were you saying?"

Sherlock gave John a wickedly wolfish grin, his teeth shining white in the low lighting. "Nothing nice." He assured him, letting his arms drop to his sides. "But..." the alien began, a sudden wave of nausea slamming down on him, "I... think I need to... be brought back to the containment unit." A pale hand shot unsteadily out, trying to help stabilize the suddenly weak body. Sherlock's skin looked almost ashen, his lids drooping. "Show me where I am to be kept."

Immediately, John was on his feet, his face lined with concern. "Sherlock! Are you all right?" The man looked as if he was going to fall over. John crouched next to him on the bed, reaching out to touch the pale face. It was cold, and clammy. "What's wrong?" he demanded. "Tell me."

"Over extended myself. I haven't... I'm not used to all these people. All these thoughts. I've been expending too much energy." Sherlock pulled away from John, getting to his feet once more, his chest tightening. "It will pass. I need to sit somewhere quiet and dark."

"Lie down." There was a commanding tone to the doctor's voice that seemed to surprise his guest. Sherlock glared at him, but John stood up, lifting his chin and jabbing his brown finger at the bed. "Lie down right now. You're not leaving this room until I'm satisfied, as your physician, that you're well enough to walk. Don't argue. Look in my brain. It's no good arguing with me."

Sherlock waved his hand at John, the thought of peeling apart John's mind to try and see what he was thinking made him sick. "I don't need to look inside you to see. Your hands, posture, and expression are more than enough clues." He sat back down on the bed and dropped his upper body onto it, curling in on himself. "I need something for nausea." Came a quiet mumble, from behind an arm, where Sherlock's face was smashed against the pillow.

John bent down to pick up Sherlock's legs, draping them over his small cot and pulling a blanket over the shivering body. "Trust me," he said softly, and disappeared a moment into the other room. When he returned, he was fitting a vial in a hypospray. "Trust me," he whispered again. He knelt by the bed, and pressed the device against Sherlock's neck. There was a sharp sting and a hiss. John exhaled. "There. I think... that should help your nausea. It's a little hard to tell with your genetic makeup, but... it should help."

Sherlock's arms jolted and he looked up at John, his expression bewildered, his eyes growing wide. He convulsed a little, shuddering and shaking for a few seconds as the shot began to take effect. "Wh... wha... at did you... gi... ve... muhh..." The Alien's lips grew slack, his whole body suddenly going completely lax, eyes half-lidded and vacant. He was no longer conscious.

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	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all for reading the first chapter of this! We hope you enjoyed it, and that you continue to read.

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John cursed, dropping the hypospray and jumping on the bed to straddle his patient. "Sherlock?" he cried, shaking the bony shoulder. There was no response. "I don't understand," the doctor muttered, rolling the slender body onto his back, and lifting his eyelids. They were thin, translucent, and underneath, dark silver irises stared blankly into space. John fretted, panic rising in his gut. He'd analysed the contents of the hypo, comparing it with Sherlock's genetic makeup, and he'd determined the medicine safe! It certainly shouldn't have knocked him out! It was just intended to calm his nerves and settle his stomach a little! John bit his lip, and darted from the bed, snatching up another vial and fitting it to his hypo. He pressed it into Sherlock's neck, his heart racing. Please work... please...

The liquid poured into Sherlock's veins, and it took a few seconds to course through his body and reach his vital systems.

Electric blue, his eyes sprang open and he leapt up, his forehead banging with John as he gasped for air. "WHAT. THE. BLOODY. FUCK DID YOU GIVE ME?!" Came the huge bellowing cry that ripped from his throat. "I thought you were a DOCTOR! What did you give me?!" He rubbed his forehead angrily, gulping in air. "Is that... what... what..." Sherlock inhaled deeply. "What did you give me?!"

John's hands were raised in a panicked, placating manner, but his face was slack with relief. "Just something to calm your stomach!" he hasted, and shoved the empty vial into Sherlock's lap. "The ingredients are listed! I swear!" He sat back on his haunches, breathing heavily and rubbing his face with both hands. "Bloody hell, I thought I'd killed you. Bloody hell. Bloody hell." The poor chap was nearly beside himself.

Sherlock slapped a hand to his neck and threw a kick out at the young doctor, his teeth bared as he growled angrily at John. " You're trying to kill me! You're GOING to kill me! Your ineptitude is going to KILL me! What were all those damn tests and blood samples for?!" He demanded, aiming another kick at John's head, missing by several inches. "I thought you were supposed to be decent!"

"I AM DECENT!" John roared, his temper flaring suddenly. He launched himself at the man to prevent another kick, and managed to straddle him again, his hands wrapped around the thin wrists, eyes fiery as they stared down into the blazing blue. "You didn't even LOOK at the label! I didn't give you anything harmful, you effing prick! Maybe you're just overwrought and need a little food and a little sleep! You've had precious little of either!" John growled. And as Sherlock glared up at him, his limbs still tensed and ready for a fight, the oddest thing happened. John felt it: the smallest of nudges against the walls of his mind. He blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, the wall dissolved, and a wash of foreign emotion crashed in on him. Fear was there, and anger, yes, but also loneliness so crushing that he felt as if he would cry. Even as Sherlock's emotions were overwhelming him, he could see in the sudden light in Sherlock's eyes that he, too, was experiencing a sudden influx of sensation: John's desperate desire to help, his frustration and helplessness, his rich anger, and... and... dammit. And that.

John sat back in horror, scooting away from him, his face pale. It was too late of course... Sherlock had seen it, and he was humiliated. He looked away, taking several deep breaths. "I'm sorry," he said lowly. "I won't give you anything else without your permission. I was trying to help."

Sherlock struggled to sit up, propping himself against the wall. "It's..." he struggled to find the right words, his jaw working as the exact phrase eluded him. "My chemical makeup is very unique." He scooted forward and looked at the replicator and stuck a finger against it. "Coffee, black, two sugars." He continued to glare at the replicator until his coffee appeared before his eyes. "Yes. Excellent." Sherlock lifted the drink to his lips and looked sidelong at the shorter man. "I'm hungry. Can you make me something?" His brain began firing questions, trying to find answers, all the while his heart pumped out fluid at a faster rate. What had that been? The sudden influx of emotions had nearly sent Sherlock spiralling off into an abyss. He'd never felt anything like that his entire life, and it was obvious just by looking at John, that the ship's doctor had felt the same anomaly. Curious.

John licked his lips again, not quite able to meet his eyes. He was going to ignore it then, what he'd seen in John's head. The wall was back up, and it seemed quite impenetrable; he couldn't feel Sherlock's emotions anymore, which was actually a bit upsetting. He wished he knew what the man was thinking. Instead, Sherlock simply carried on as if nothing had happened, as if they hadn't just been shouting and fighting and wrestling on the bed...

"Dammit." He pushed that particular thought far, far from the front of his mind, and strode over to the replicator, still avoiding the piercing eyes. "What do you want me to make for you?" John asked tightly. "I don't want to poison you. Again."

Sherlock looked up at John, his face twisting in regret and anger. He turned about and set the mug down, his shoulders drawing up. "Bring me back to the containment cell, please." The Alien wrapped his arms around himself and he stomped over to the door, kicking it. "I'm not hungry. I'm not thirsty." Sherlock schooled his face into a blank mask. He kicked the door again, frustrated. "Bring me back." He wasn't sure why he was so upset in that moment, only that a sudden wash of anger had overtaken him, and he just couldn't… contain it.

"You... are behaving like a petulant child. Sit down and tell me what you want to eat." John sounded weary. He turned to the man, shaking his head. "You're not a prisoner here, Sherlock. There is no containment cell. You were given quarters, like mine. You're free to go whenever you like, but you should eat. Now what do you want to eat?"

"I don't want to eat. I haven't eaten in over thirty years." He kicked the door again, ignoring the pain in his toes from the repeated blows. "I don't want to eat. Eating is boring."

John sighed and walked over to the door, pressing the button to let him out. "Fine," he said. "Your room is on deck 6, room 638. But if you want some company or... a friend to talk to.. my quarters are here on deck 2. 221." He turned back to his room, shoulders bent from exhaustion. Being a friend to someone who had no use for you was a tiring job.

Sherlock shuffled out the door, glancing back at John once before wrapped his arms about himself and turning the corner to his left.

 _Just stop talking to her. Just stop. She's out of your league, and... who are you looking at?_

A girl turned around the corner, glaring at Sherlock, looking him up and down before skirting about him and picking up her pace.

 _Tell Andrew to stop leaving the dishes on the floor._

 _Does he like me?_

 _I wonder what I should have for dinner.._

Sherlock pressed his lips together and sped up, looking about for one of the lifts as a group of people came walking down the corridor toward him, a few talking aloud, most just thinking very, very loudly. He made an angry noise and pressed the lift button five more times, trying to hurry it up. People. Humans. What pathetic, idiotic people.

John fell onto his bed with a groan, throwing his arms over his face. What had he been THINKING? Literally! Sherlock had caught him with his internal pants down, and... no wonder he was in a hurry to leave! The doctor made a frustrated noise, shutting his eyes tight. It wasn't like he sat around all day thinking about sex! But... but he had allowed a few stray thoughts to worm their way into his conscious mind, and Sherlock was a very attractive young man, alien or not. John had been vulnerable at the moment! He was worried and angry and... and... He stood, ripping his uniform off and stalking towards the shower. He needed to cool off.

Sherlock found himself wandering somewhere along the seventh deck, his head whipping around as he searched for the lift again. It was much quieter up here, half the deck was covered in windows, and he paused, looking up at the galaxy. He stared at the stars, pale and dead. The inhabitants of the earth still saw these as bright, twinkling beams of light. A deep sense of loneliness filled the Alien's heart and he sank down to the floor, wrapping his arms about his legs. Somehow he needed to get off the ship with his brain and body intact. His mind strayed to the moment shared between the doctor and himself, and he dragged his hands through his hair in frustration.

Across the ship, the little doctor stood under a stream of hot water, his brow troubled. He stared at the opposite tiled wall, steam rising and filling his lungs. He regretted letting Sherlock go. The poor man was so alone, so frightened and hungry. He sighed, and turned the water off.

John took his time getting ready for sleep. He knew he should check to make sure his charge had returned to his rooms safely, but somehow he couldn't make himself push the com. At last, he lay on his back in his bed, head pillowed on his arm, and John gazed up at his ceiling. It was no use. There was no way he was sleeping tonight. Why had it been so much easier on the asteroid, when Sherlock was kind to him, and they had pleasant, even friendly interactions? Now... John exhaled, and closed his eyes. He concentrated, reached out.. but felt nothing. For long moments, he lay quiet and still, and at last, he rumbled to the darkness. "What the hell."

Slowly, the wall inside his mind lowered, and he swallowed thickly, whispering internally, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's head lurched up and he got to his feet, steadying himself carefully. "John." The alien stumbled down the corridor, steadying himself on the walls. "John." He made his shaky way to the lift and he pressed down another five times before the door open and he stepped inside. He closed his eyes and reached out, trying to feel for the only mind that he cared to see inside. So he tried again.

 _John?_

Just in case. He licked his lips, wrapping his arms about himself.

John's eyes flew open. This was... bizarre, and wonderful! He smiled, letting them flutter shut again.

 _I'm here. Are you all right?_

Sherlock grinned and looked toward the door.

 _Yes. Yes, I'm all right. Where are you?_

 _In my room. Where are you?_

John bit his lip, stretching out on the hard mattress. This was the oddest thing he'd ever done. He was speaking to someone... across decks, across what felt like miles. And he could HEAR him, like echoes underwater, but with certainty.

 _In the lift on the way down from deck seven._

Sherlock answered, stopping himself from scratching at the doors.

 _I... didn't... earlier... mean for you to see all that._

John frowned, craning his neck without opening his eyes.

 _I didn't see anything bad. I thought you left because... of what you saw._

He was ashamed to admit it, but the weight felt as if it had been lifted off his chest, and he didn't want this conversation to end.

The door pinged open and Sherlock jumped out, heading quickly toward John's quarters. He looked about, avoiding contact with the guards on duty that night. They had been put there, he knew, because of his arrival. Yes, John Watson had told them he was harmless, but no one actually believed that. Sherlock knew that John's captain thought that he was now under the unidentified Alien's sway.

The alien skidded to a halt in front of John's room, and he pulled the door open, not bothering to press the button on the side. "I left because... you sounded as though you were... weary of me." Sherlock looked at the ship's doctor, the veins in his hands beginning to turn silver as he looked across at the short man.

For a moment, John did not realize the words had been spoken aloud, and he now had a visitor. He lay very still in his bed, hands laced over his stomach, a little smile on his lips. But the knowledge that he was no longer alone slowly dawned on him, and he sat up, eyebrows lifted at the silhouette in his doorway. "I... You were demanding to leave, and I didn't want you to feel like you were a prisoner." He stammered the words, flushing.

"I wanted you to make me food. But... you sounded as though you'd rather skin a tribble." Sherlock pulled the door shut behind him and turned about, blinking through the dark at John's seated figure.

"No, I... I didn't know what you wanted, and I thought... after what you saw..." The doctor looked away, embarrassed. He clasped his hands between his legs, knobby knees looking comically thin in the dark.

Sherlock shook his head, taking carefully measured steps until he stood by the bed, looking down at the half naked man. "It was my mind that took over first." He said softly.

"I just didn't... mean..." John bit his lower lip, then stood, forcing a brave face. "It doesn't matter now. Look, I'd like you to stay and eat with me, and.. you're welcome to stay as long as you like, eh? I would enjoy the company. Your company," he amended, making very sure Sherlock understood the invitation. It was meant for him, and not out of pity, not out of obligation. John's mind was still open, and he willed this knowledge onto Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded and sat down, his hands wrapping about one another. "Yes." He shifted about for a second before grabbing John and pushing him back and situating him until he was in the perfect position. Sherlock plumped his lap up a little, kneading the legs with his hands a few seconds before resting his head down in the perfect head shaped indent. He smiled and closed his eyes. "You are a competent doctor."

John's heart began to race again. He sat very still, hardly daring to breathe, staring down at the man curled up in his lap like a cat. For several seconds, neither man moved. Then slowly, very slowly, John's worn hands came to rest, one on the curve of Sherlock's bony hip, the other in the thick mass of dark curls atop his head. John stroked the hair gently. "Thank you," he said at last. "I try my very best."

"I know." Sherlock answered softly, wiggling about at first, then thrashing until John's hands fell from his body. He flipped over so that his face was pressed into the doctor's stomach, then he picked John's hands up and replaced them on his hip and in his hair. "You're the only doctor I would trust to run clinical tests on my chemical makeup." Sherlock answered, his chin resting on the man's crotch.

John sat very still, blinking rapidly, his heart a flutter. The alien's breath was warm on his belly, and he could not move for fear of nudging the wrong body part against the wrong place, and upsetting his guest all over again. "Th..ank you," John said very slowly, grey eyes lowering to the curly mop of dark hair on his lap. Sherlock's eyes were closed, and he looked for all the world like he might be going to sleep. John licked his lips nervously. Was this punishment for his brief wicked thought earlier in the evening? He'd been quite unable to control it; he was only human after all. But Sherlock didn't seem angry, or indeed, surprised. If anything, he was more intimate than ever, and John wondered for a moment if his lapse in discretion had actually relaxed the man, rather than infuriated him. He cleared his throat, still unmoving. "I am.. glad you trust me. I trust you, as well."

Sherlock cracked one eye open and gave John a toothy grin. "I know you do." He sighed and rolled over so that he was staring up at John. "I don't like that room they have me in. May I sleep in here with you tonight?" He could see the discomfort on John's face, and it warmed his heart just a little. It was fun tormenting and making the doctor squirm. He found that it was something he could spend hours and hours and hours doing. Just leading him on a wild goose chase, watching him trying to catch up.

John opened and shut his mouth, trying to think of the best way to phrase his answer. "Uh... Sherlock, I wouldn't mind, I really wouldn't. But... but there are things to consider, and I..." His voice trailed off as he gazed down into the liquidy silver eyes. He hadn't a leg to stand on and they both knew it. Starfleet regulations had no rules involving fraternizing with new life forms. John swallowed thickly..

And was saved by the bell. His communicator chirped, and he tapped it lightly. "Watson."

"Doctor, report to my ready room immediately, please." The captain. John closed his eyes, sighing.

"Acknowledged. On my way." He slid out from underneath Sherlock's wiry body, and tossed him a pillow. "Get some rest while I'm gone," he smiled. "I'll be back in a few."

Sherlock stayed silent, ignoring John as he left the room. So it was like that, then. He waited five minutes before quietly slipping out of the room. There were a few seconds of contemplation as he decided between hacking into the ship's computer via John's network and getting the man into trouble, or leaving it alone and saving him a possible court martial. He decided on the latter and exited swiftly and quietly. John didn't want him in his room, he especially did not want him spending the night. No doubt it would raise too many eyebrows and cause him too many smart remarks in the lounge. Sherlock shook his head and padded to the lift, his bare feet silent on the flooring. It was quite all right this way.

He pressed the button, stepped into the lift, spoke his level and room number, and waited for it to take him where he needed to go.

John emerged from his meeting with the Captain an hour later, looking weary. He really was unable to tell the men any more than they already knew. They had his reports, they had his personal assurances that Sherlock wasn't a threat, and if that wasn't enough.. well, John couldn't give them anything else. No, he had no solid proof of who he was, what he was, if he had an agenda. Any attempts to prove his assertions to them would put Sherlock in peril, and John was unwilling to betray his friend's confidence. He returned to his room, yawning, and was almost to his door when he remembered what awaited him within. John hesitated, just outside the door. Was Sherlock in there? Was he sleeping in his bed? Was John going to sleep in his bed, too? The doctor grunted, passing his hand over his face, and he stepped forward into his quarters.

John's heart sank immediately. He was gone. Sherlock was not in his bed, and suddenly, John found himself grievously disappointed.

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